


Last Respects

by konnoronhkwa



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Family, Family Feels, Gen, Kinda AU, tweaking canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konnoronhkwa/pseuds/konnoronhkwa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone asked him how he got to New York, Connor would have said he did not remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Respects

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brokibrodinson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokibrodinson/gifts).



> I've taken some liberties, so not everything is the same as in canon, but I hope you can enjoy this none the less. This is my first AC3 fanfic, so I hope my characters are not too OOC. :) 
> 
> Dedicated to brokibrodinson. ♥
> 
> “The shattering of a heart when being broken is the loudest quiet ever.” - Carroll Bryant

The Davenport mansion basement was shrouded in silence. The lone figure of Connor stood there solemnly, looking around the small room. His breathing was unnaturally loud to his own ears and he was suddenly reminded why he did not spend so much time in this house; he chose to sit at the inn with the lovely people of the Homestead or walk the streets of Boston instead of sitting in this house with only silence and his thoughts as his companions.

His side twitched as he shifted his weight, reminding him that he was still not fully healed from his last encounter with Charles Lee six months ago. His eyes found the man's portrait but did not linger; they were drawn to the portrait in the center. His eyes traced the familiar lines of his father's face. He wondered why he had never crossed him out like the portraits of the other Templars but did not want to dwell on it too much. His chest felt heavy when he read the one word he had written 5 months ago during his recuperation.

_Sakataterihwáhten._

Connor swallowed and tore his eyes from the writing, yet the words still haunted him. _I made a mistake._ Taking a sharp breath, he looked down at the table pressed against the wall. His hand twitched and reached out as his fingers ran along the edges of his father's bracer. This was not the only Haytham Kenway's memento his apprentices retrieved from Fort George; his father's journal sat in the library upstairs, pages worn by use and by Connor's handling over the last few months. The Assassins were instructed to only bring back the journal and Connor did not know what had possessed them to return with the bracer as well. The items had been brought to him when he had been still bedridden and since he had not many things to entertain himself with, he had decided to read the journal.

It had taken Connor hours to read it in its entirety as he sat in his bed, his eyes pouring over the words as quickly as possible to absorb everything, as if the writing would disappear if he had not. When he had reached the last page, and ultimately, his father's last words to him, the open journal had fallen to his lap. He had been ready to judge and scoff at the Grandmaster's words, thinking he would have praised his Templar work and written down his achievements. What he had found instead left him feeling empty, a large black gaping void somewhere inside his chest. Connor had sat for the longest of times simply staring at the wall while everything had clicked into place.

It had occurred to him that he had never really known his father. The man's life had been forged by lies, betrayal and death, ultimately allowing him to stray from his path of an Assassin and joining the Templar Order under Reginald Birch's watchful eye. Despite never meeting him, Connor hated Birch almost as much as Charles Lee. Not only was Birch guilty in killing Connor's grandfather Edward and the kidnapping of his aunt Jenny, he also had his hand in leading Haytham away from the Brotherhood. Would it have made a difference? If his father had not become a Templar, would Connor ever be born?

Sighing deeply and shaking his head to clear it, he started gathering the Templar portraits, placing them on a neat pile at the table. He reached for Haytham's portrait but stopped at the last moment. Something did not feel right about it and he withdrew his hand. Collecting all the other portraits in his arms, he took a look around the basement again and limped upstairs. A nice warm fire was burning in the hearth in the living room and with a sigh he dropped the paintings into the flames. He watched the wood and paper blacken until all that left was ash.

 

* * *

 

If anyone asked him how he got to New York, Connor would have said he did not remember. The ride was a haze, it seemed as if his moves were automatic. When he mounted his horse, he did not have a set destination in mind. Yet somehow he directed his horse to the city and did not realize where he was until the morning mist revealed the city gates to him.

Why did he end up _here_ he didn't know either; lurking around the chapel's corner like a criminal. He must have been a sight to the passersby but he paid them no mind; he was used to stares and remarks due to the colour of his skin. Pulling the hood further down to cover his face, he bent to pet a stray dog briefly before he took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

The graveyard was empty and dreary, the mist swirling lazily around the gravestones. He swallowed and took a few hesitant steps before his legs automatically took him the rest of the way. For a moment he stood ramrod straight, his eyes darting all around him until they finally settled on the gravestone near his feet. There were no flowery words, no fancy engraving, just a straightforward name and date. To Connor it seemed wrong somehow. He would have imagined something more majestic for the former Grandmaster of the Templars, not such a small thing that stood a little bit askew. 

"Father-" he began but his voice sounded strange to his ears, probably from the lack of use for the last few days. He pursed his lips and cleared his throat, pausing to listen to a ruckus made by little children before their parents calmed them down. He closed his eyes as the voices dulled into soft murmurs, the morning breeze ruffling the leaves of a nearby tree. His normally sharp senses dulled, every sound around him now a distant hum in the background, his own breathing and heartbeat loud in his ears. Everything blurred around the edges of his vision as he stared at the writing on the gravestone. With his entire focus on the cold stone in front of him, he failed to see a dark figure dart towards the chapel's corner where he had just been, listening in. 

"I realize I have never paid my last respects." Connor started quietly, remembering the time when he had gone to confront Lee at Haytham's funeral, ignoring the open grave and the coffin lying nearby. He shifted uneasily on his feet. "I feel it is only right; everyone deserves to be treated with respect. I know that our relationship has been less than ideal but still, you are my f-father." His voice broke at the last word and he bit his lip. Blinking rapidly, he slowly sank to his knees, feeling foolish just standing there with his arms crossed. His hands folded in his lap, eyes tracing every letter etched into the rough stone.

"Forgive me." He whispered into the air around him. Connor never realized how much of his feelings he kept bottled up inside for the last few months, even years; it only took one look at the harsh reality - he had killed his only remaining family. His lips trembled.

Spirits above, _what had he done?_

"I-I made a mistake." The tears finally tumbled down his cheeks, his walls crumbling around him, leaving him vulnerable and broken. "I have misjudged you." 

While Haytham's journal could not atone for his wrongdoings, Connor found himself missing the older man. "I wish I could change everything and tell you that I'm sorry. But it's too late." Connor knew his father had some good in him, deep down he had known that and that is what made him argue with Achilles. Was it really a misplaced sentiment, as his late mentor had said? Maybe it had been a wishful thinking to be reconciled with his father, his beloved enemy. Still, he mourned.

He mourned for the man he had read about. 

The man whom his mother had loved. 

The man who could not see his enemy, _his son_ , be hanged. 

The man who severed the rope around Connor's neck without a second thought, betraying his Order.

The man who more or less forced Connor's blade to his neck to take his life, fully prepared to die by his son's hand.

"Too late." He whispered, bowing his head as the tears came down harder. "I'm so sorry." He managed to choke out before his throat closed up with sobs and he shivered with emotion. The figure behind the corner strained to listen, swallowing at the mournful sounds coming from the young man. Despite themselves, they were moved and their chest constricted as they witnessed the Assassin's grief. 

Meanwhile, Connor's sobs eased into soft whimpers. He could not remember the last time he had lost control of his emotions like this and, embarrassed, wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. He sniffed and regarded the cold stone in front of him with furrowed brows. Raising a hand, his fingertips traced his father's last name almost in wonder. Coming from the Kanien'kehá:ka tribe, he never really had his own surname and his given name, Ratonhnhaké:ton, was enough. Connor hadn't wanted to take his mentor's surname, for it would have been strange. It was enough he had been named after Achilles' deceased son. 

He stared at the letters in front of him again. _Kenway_. If his people followed some of the colonists' tradition, his real surname would be Kenway. _Connor Kenway_. While the relationship with his father had not been that of an ideal family, he still could not deny his roots. His grandfather had been a pirate and an assassin, and from what Connor read in Haytham's journal, he had been a great man, whose life was ended prematurely.

 _Connor Kenway_. 

He repeated the name in his head several times and found he liked it; somehow it sounded _right_. Satisfied that he could carry his father's and grandfather's legacy, he whispered a goodbye, his gaze lingering at his father's name before he went to the direction of his horse.

Having heard and seen enough, the figure slipped into the shadows without being seen.

**Author's Note:**

> I also made sort of a cover for this, you can see it here http://i.imgur.com/pd5jwTQ.jpg


End file.
